


it keeps without a leash

by scarecrowes



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Friendship, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:10:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So I treat it like what it is; I lay these eggshells to remember to be careful."</p>
            </blockquote>





	it keeps without a leash

**Author's Note:**

> Something of an impromptu character/relationship study.

Arnold Rothstein’s absolute poise lends itself to more of the same. It’s difficult even in the most relaxed of moments to imagine him fumbling with  _anything,_ or tired, or shaken, or even concerned. 

And for a brief span of months Charlie thinks of him that way. They’re  _Mr. Rothstein_ and  _Mr. Luciano,_ not Arnold and Salvatore, or any shorter names to better fit. The Bankroll is straight backed and quiet and clear-spoken, and Charlie wants to hate him for it because he’s supposed to feel that sinking ball of anger in his gut at somebody who’s  _better_ \- richer, cleaner,  _all American -_ and he doesn’t feel that at all. 

But still he’s sure Rothstein must not like him, not  _much,_ because he’s brash and loud and the man looks at him funny when he swears, and that’s what’s always happened. Charlie’s used to people with his own blood liking him - not family, not the hard hands of his father, but something hot and spiteful and violent and  _ready,_ him and Meyer and Benny and on some days even Frank, even if the older man doesn’t smile much. And Rothstein - Charlie could crack a joke at Rothstein’s blood not being able to _get_ more blue, except Meyer likes the man enough that he’d never laugh at that, and Charlie swallows it like a sliver of glass in his throat. 

And there’s one night Charlie’s sure that Meyer will ditch him, dragged up and out like those kids whose dads knocked them around maybe a little harder, until they got some  _sense._  Charlie fully plans on slugging Meyer in the teeth and telling him exactly what he thinks of that,  _who the fuck you think you are anyway -_ except Meyer’s still the same when he comes around after meetings Charlie isn’t privy to, a sharp grin and fist thudding lightly against Charlie’s shoulder, a bent cigarette offered from his case, and Charlie forgets about it again. 

Except he’s still  _Mr. Luciano,_ and that’s funny as much as it’s nice, because he’s barely over twenty and scraping for his rent on Park, and Rothstein could buy him a thousand times over and still not want to own him at all. 

So he corrects it, once, sharp and weighted in a way that almost  _hurts_ on his tongue like every time he told someone a few years before, coming home with his nickname branded in his arm. Except it’s not _Salvatore_ that’s said all wrong now _,_ and he isn’t sure Rothstein even knows he’s been called that before. 

“It’s Charlie.” 

And Rothstein, who Charlie expects to wave him off, call him whatever he damn well pleases because only his blood’s let him name himself before - Rothstein looks up from his plate to Charlie and  _falters,_ like he isn’t sure he heard right. Like he’s a person, and Charlie thinks that’s a stupid thing to think of because he couldn’t be anything else; but it remains that there’s a pause during which Rothstein chews his cake and Charlie chews his tongue and then the Bankroll swallows, extends a hand like they’ve never met before and says, 

“AR.” 

They fall in that way, Charlie’s grip tight when they shake on it like they’re agreeing on something without saying it. It will filter in slow, in fits and starts; Rothstein buys him a suit, or several, and tiptoes around enough of an edge that Charlie doesn’t take it as  _charity._ And Charlie covers a poker debt, once or twice or a few more times, and it’s not always because Rothstein wholly needs it. He beats AR at pool twice, once for money; and then after weeks and meetings and fifteen hours on a single stint spent over a several thousand dollar pot and a few disgruntled robber barons, he hears Rothstein mimic his accent. It’s all rough East Side drawl and the tails of words cut off, sounding impossibly low and absurd from the Bankroll’s mouth, and he shouldn’t,  _he shouldn’t laugh,_ but Charlie spends the next five minutes howling on the floor. 

And he notices, too, the pieces that fit in place with the Wolf, the King of Easy Money, the same as his own history and the name inked into his forearm trace back to  _Salvatore_  and so much want he can’t breathe. He hears it when they meet Yale and the cold level of AR’s voice locks in with how Charlie adjusts his jacket just enough his gun shows, and there will be worse days. There will be nights Charlie limps back to the city with gunpowder in his palms and his skin smelling like sweat and shattered crates of whiskey - and they’re never friends those nights, but Rothstein still tells him how to get the bloodstains out of his sleeve, and it’s all still _fine._

It will be months, months and weeks further before he catches on to the raw parts, the ones that are most like himself or he might just think so; the ones that the stoic shouldn’t own up to and that Charlie didn’t think existed, before now. Because the Bankroll responds just like he would, when Charlie ducks his head when they’re absolutely alone, going against every screaming nerve of  _don’t don’t can’t won’t_ in favor of pushing closer, and Rothstein locks up against the touch of his mouth.

“…Sorry.” Charlie mumbles, pulling back and retreating near entirely with the scuff of his heels on the floor. He can’t breathe, he isn’t drunk, and the terror in his chest is  _crippling._

Except AR blinks, and Charlie notices too late that he’s gone pink across the bridge of his nose. There’s that stupid thought of humanity, again, too - when what else could they be? 

“It’s alright.” Rothstein says, and there have been enough of a thousand times that he’s pretended not to be angry for the sake of Charlie’s pride that Charlie dutifully doesn’t notice how his voice breaks. 

They aren’t friends, still, but it’s fine. 


End file.
